2004

The two young boys were excited about their road trip with Mr. Strickling.  They had no father at home and the promise of a van trip with motel stays and eating out sounded like high adventure.  Their mother trusted this older gentleman from her church with her boys; she waved good-bye, happy about their journey to the Midwest.

By day the threesome rode along through northern Texas to Oklahoma and upwards. Sometimes the boys slept. At meal times they helped Mr. Strickling out of the car and into his motorized wheelchair.  Motels meant swimming pools and late night television with Mr. Strickling in one bed and the two boys in the other. Tired from the exercise of swimming, the long hours in the car, and the general fatigue of traveling, the brothers usually fell asleep quickly and slept deeply.  Lying awake in the bed beside them, Mr. Strickling awaited the opportunity signaled by their stillness and the even rhythm of their breathing.

Slipping out of his bed as gingerly as a snake venturing from beneath a rock, Mr. Strickling moved stealthily toward the bed that held his prey.  With beating heart and sweaty palms, he slipped his hand beneath the covers and violated the young body of one of the boys who trusted him.  Perspiring and weak, Mr. Strickling hobbled back to bed, his mission finally accomplished.  He had won the confidence of a family in order to gratify his fantasies with impunity.  What could it hurt?  They were asleep.

Only they were not always asleep. Shame and perplexity kept their mouths shut.  At about ages ten and twelve, the boys did not really understand what this old man was doing.  All of his signals were mixed; at once grandfather and child molester.  They must not have understood what to feel.  Years later at least one of them found a reason to accuse Mr. Strickling and the courage to follow through.  They were almost adults by February of 2004, but they had clearly never forgotten the transgression of trust thrust upon them when they were too nascent to have clarity about what the old man's fondlings meant.  I still do not know what life event prompted their coming to terms with their abuse.  I am quite sure, however, that Daddy had put it out of his mind with the passage of so much time.

Though my father understood that I would not be there for him, my sisters did not.  We all have our own story about our father; we each handled the knowledge of his pedophilia differently.  For many years I feel they were more hopeful than I was that the season of actively pursuing children was in the past for Daddy, and he was just a sad old man.  I confess I had no real hope of that, especially following our Sunday morning with him.  Without sounding like I did not want to help my sisters through the miasma created by the new revelation of indiscretion, I made it clear to them that I would not be there for Daddy in any fashion other than prayer this time.  Living in California precluded my ability to actually be physically involved; but, I did want to be of whatever support I could to my family handling the brunt of the felony and its consequences.  They executed with incomparable grace and wisdom the ongoing melodrama of Daddy's second arrest.

Over the years, when I came across a book or sermon that touched a deep place in me, I would send a copy to Daddy with a note.  Occasionally, I would email him a verse from the Bible that was helping me along in my own struggles.  On Father's Day of 2003, I sent Daddy a book by author John Eldridge entitled The Sacred Romance.  I rarely heard from Daddy about these communications; but, I received this letter from  him dated March 12, 2004.

Dear Kay,
I have agonized and wept before writing this letter.  I could not bring myself to telephone until this morning, knowing how much I have failed you and that your heart would be broken once more by the actions of a father in whom you placed your confidence and for whom you have lifted up in prayer for such a long, long time.  But, I believe my heavenly Father meant me to write to you because I tried several times to reach you but the line was continually busy.  I know that He has used you as an instrument to guide me to Him.  I know that He loves me even though I have sinned against Him and my family and my fellow man.

Now I have come to the end of my turning away and am reaping the results of a lifetime charade of the Christian on the exterior but one beset by the arrows on the interior.  What the Father has in store for me I do not know!  But I do know that the play is over and the final scene can be set in a prison or my death.

The irony is that you must have known how much I would need your gift of The Sacred Romance. I only read the first few pages after  you presented it to me on Father's Day, but after February 20, when the detectives knocked on my door and presented me with the latest accusation of my sordid actions, it became a firm foundation to help me find some source of peace.  For the first time I have really faced what I have become and what I should have been all my life!  I called my pastor and in tearful and grinding confession with utmost humility told him of my life.  He has assured me that he will stand by me and offer his support in every way possible.

I am home, on bail, waiting for the court date to be set.  Each day is one of deep sorrow which burrows into my very being and never-before desire to humble myself and pray and seek His face as He reminds us to in His Word.

Thank you for your longsuffering and patience and supplication for me and my problem!  I have asked God for forgiveness and also forgiveness from the victim of my action.  I can only pray that you will always love me, difficult as it may be, and that, you also, can find room in your heart to forgive me...

I will always love you!!
Daddy

Over and over my eyes told my mind the literal meaning of the words they drew in from the hand-written letter before me.  Though I could feel the tears welling up, I could not decipher from what well they sprang. Wailing and sorrow poured raw and bloody from my parents' bedroom in 1985 on the evening of Daddy's first arrest.  Prayers and hymns mixed with the dirge of death, chanted over their lamenting as they grasped for some comfort from their familiar religious rituals.  Recognition of a need from a God who rescues; petitions to Him for grace and mercy.  Bullet-ridden hearts, aching to recover and heal, barely beat for the fresh, crimson woundings; they cried out for restoration, or at least the promise of it.

How was this confession different?  Deeply flowing distrust had collided with the tiniest ray of hope in my daughter-heart, and the combustion stirred up enough confusion to prime a well of hidden waters.  Grace, abundant grace, deluges flood-like from the God of love, and in my need, I have joyfully, thankfully, incredibly splashed in the cleansing ablution bought by my Savior's blood.  I would not deny that to my father; my Father has never denied it to me.  An authentic heart is precious to God; no bull, no pretense. The prodigal can still come home and be embraced by merely understanding how lost he is without his Father.

Still - there was the line in the letter: "I have asked God for forgiveness also forgiveness from the victim of my action."

Had he confessed to only one victim?  Did his pastor think this Daddy's first and only arrest?  The manacles of manipulation had taken me several years to escape, and my heart would not easily be refettered to their ruses.  For years I had endeavored energetically and sincerely to mediate between my God and my father.  I read Daddy's epistle to me one last time and then gave him completely over to God alone.

In August of 2004, Daddy was given probation instead of prison time.  Incomparable mercy.  An old man with an old problem. Court ordered counseling once again and a court trained chaperone every time he went to church. Since he could not be within a hundred feet of a child without court oversight, his future locked him into his home.  Relief, for him, was great; I did not really know what to think. Probation had not dissuaded him before.  And always there was the quandry, "What is my role in this?"  Picking up my journal on that warm August afternoon I wrote:

"Again he was given probation.  God's grace to him is great. I pray he discovers his True Father out of all this.  I am not much help as my own pain is too close to his - I cannot go to the depths again with him.  I no longer want to be a pit dweller, but I am still encrusted with some of its slime - the sights and smells are too new for me and the great heartache I feel would long to be comforted should I bend over the pit and reach down to Daddy.  Father, You see him there.  If he is Yours, I am certain You will pull him out of this.  I cannot.  I tried the first time and fell in with him."